When discussing Tod Browning’s Dracula these days, it seems almost a cliché in many circles, often lumped in—as it often is in the popular consciousness—with the later Universal monster movies that tend to ratchet up the cheese factor. However, returning to the original source proves illuminating, from the arresting portrayal of the titular character by Bela Lugosi to the especially creepy introduction and conclusion to the film.

It’s that introduction in Dracula’s castle and the conclusion in his English lair that are so striking in the film, particularly due to Browning’s use of space. In the early scenes that take place at Dracula’s castle, as Renfield makes his visit, everything in the castle is grand, dominating the singular and diminutive real estate agent. The arches stretch up high toward the towering ceiling; the massive staircase curves up and out of sight; spider webs cover walkways taller and wider than a grown man; the fireplace in Dracula’s dining room is from the same family as the massive hearth Welles employed near the end of Citizen Kane ten years later; and even the table where Renfield sits, including the dishes and silverware, seems too large for him.

All of this communicates a sense of dread and powerlessness, not only because of the imposing grandeur of the place, but also because of its isolated location, two qualities it shares in common with Dracula’s English manor. Old and overgrown, the manor is difficult to access, at one point even looking like it is partially underground, or at least built into a hillside; the door that Van Helsing and Harker eventually enter through is difficult to breach; once inside the lair, and impressive staircase hugs the cylindrical wall; and as they pursue Dracula into the cellar, they discover what appears to be a catacomb-like series of rooms, a never-ending series of chambers that stretch out for what seems like forever into the blackness beyond.

These scenes, early and late, contrast significantly with the middle section of the film, most of which takes place on Dracula’s boat or in Dr. Seward’s house/mental hospital. Each of these locations seems small and confined by comparison to the other locations, and as such, much of the mystery in the film drains away in favor of clearer explanations, more plot information, and an ultimate understanding of vampires that comforts rather than terrifies. However, this works well in the scheme of Browning’s film. When we eventually arrive at Dracula’s English lair near the end of the film, Browning continues what he had begun early in the film—cloaking his villain in a mysterious space, one where he sits larger than life, where everything is dark and treacherous and unpredictable. The effect of the space in these final scenes therefore leaves a much more terrifying impression.

So when Van Helsing finishes off the vampire at the film’s end, it’s hardly surprising that it occurs off screen. What better choice could Browning make? What some have criticized as a limp ending actually seems a brilliant choice. Rather than show his villain limited and defeated in this place of mystery and darkness—traditionally a place of strength for the vampire—he prevents the viewer from having the full catharsis of seeing the vampire killed. This in turn leaves everything somewhat unsettled, which is appropriate for such a dark and unpredictable setting. Through his use of space, Browning is able to end the film with more of a question than a full resolution.

The unique use of space in Browning’s film creates an equally unique structure to the film, where the real catharsis and victory comes with the action still in Dr. Seward’s house. For it is there that Van Helsing is portrayed as master of all things vampire; there where the doctor has a tight hold on his patient and daughter, Mina; and there where Dracula seems least able to affect his victim. The brilliance of the film then comes that it uses its final act to attain some narrative resolution, while at the same time remaining unwilling to resolve all the mystery and tension that surround a compelling creation such as Dracula.

Take Out, a 2004 film by co-directors Sean Baker and Tsou Shih-Ching, follows a day in the life of a young Chinese immigrant, Ming Ding, who delivers food on his bicycle for a living. The film eventually appeared in a few U.S. theaters in 2008, and now on Region 1 DVD from Kino in 2009, but it’s a shame this film has had such a difficult time finding an audience.

The film was shot in New York City and takes on elements of neo-realist style, with its use of natural lighting, actual locations, and elliptical editing. The writing effectively reveals the details of the narrative slowly, beginning with only the barest amount of information. This tactic allows the viewer time to experience Ming’s life, to appreciate his hard work, and to come to have a rooting interest in his fate.

The film opens with two thugs rummaging through a dingy apartment in the early morning, looking for Ming. On their search, they climb over sleeping bodies and walk around multiple bunk beds in an otherwise strikingly spare dwelling. Eventually, they find the object of their search, and pull Ming into the unoccupied kitchen. After informing him what he owes and that they’ll double his loan amount if he doesn’t have the full amount that night, they pull out a sledgehammer to leave Ming a message that they really are serious. However, Baker and Tsou cut away as the thugs strike their blow, setting a pattern that will hold through most of the film: interaction and introspection will trump sensational and sentimental events.

Not only does this technique of handling violence bring the imagination to bear in a productive way on the act itself, but in this choice the filmmakers refuse to aestheticize the violence. In doing so, they step away from what has been the tradition of American cinema for the last forty plus years, which has by and large reveled in increasingly disturbing depictions of violent behavior. Instead, Baker and Tsou take a step toward a style of cinema that limits the portrayal of violence without eschewing a willingness to dwell on its effects.

From the apartment filled with illegal immigrants, the film moves outside for the bulk of its runtime. Excepting several conversations with co-workers, most of the film follows Ming as he repeatedly delivers food on his bicycle to try and earn all the money he needs to repay his debt. The directors shoot the film in such a way to highlight Ming’s interconnection with the life and movement of New York City. Horns honk. Cars zip by in the foreground. People cross in front of Ming’s bike, prompting him to make quick stops. Grounding the film like this in its physical location—a reality further highlighted by the repeated shots of cooking in the restaurant and doors opening and closing—encourages the viewer to observe closely. What might be different about this delivery, when compared to the one before? How does this apartment building compare with the last? Who will answer the door, and how will they respond to the delivery man?

Ultimately though, Ming becomes the focus of these deliveries. Will Ming do anything differently? How will he react if there’s a problem? Will he take his friend’s suggestion about interacting with customers? The intense focus on Ming and the invitation to observe creates a bond with the main character. Not only is he quietly desperate in his desire to earn the needed money, thus creating empathy for the character, but he works so hard that it is difficult not to come away appreciating the work ethic that kicks into gear when necessity calls. In that we connect deeply with Ming.

And this is, I think, where the film makes an important contribution in our world. The reality is simple: Illegal immigrants more than likely come across as strange and different to most Western viewers. But the filmmakers put a face on Ming that allows us the opportunity to see him as a human being, rather than simply as a political position. This isn’t to say the filmmakers hint at the political issue of immigration at all. Had they done that (a la The Visitor), this would have been a much lesser film. It’s precisely because the filmmakers limit themselves to the simple details of Ming’s life that their film carries the power and expansiveness that it does.

I can’t offer an exhaustive list of what makes a great film, but I can say with confidence Take Out’s insistence on portraying characters that resemble actual human beings puts it well into the discussion.

During the Enlightenment, philosophers sought to find out the truth about our world through the aid of reason. No longer was revelation the primary source of knowledge about the world. God may have spoken to the world, but if he did, his words would have to pass the muster of our reason. As such, the age of revelation passed on in favor of our own sense and perceptions of the world, leading to the modern conflict between faith and reason.

This conflict of ideas gets played out cleverly in the Val Lewton-produced psychological horror film, I Walked with a Zombie. Released in 1943 by RKO on a B-movie budget, the film nevertheless makes good use of its more limited cast and sets through the application of atmospheric lighting, thoughtful writing, and an inventive use of the camera.

The setup is simple: a young Canadian nurse is recruited to the Caribbean by a rich sugar cane farmer to care for his mysteriously ill wife. When she arrives, she finds a woman we might describe as blank—she will obey simple commands, but never speaks or shows any emotion whatsoever. Of course, as a medical professional, she consults with the doctor on possible treatments, and even gets him to administer an experimental treatment in the hopes of shocking her back to waking life.

However, not even the most advanced medical procedures make any difference in the patient’s health. The sick woman continues in her zombie-like state, while the nurse, feeling great compassion for the lonely husband, wracks her brain for any possible solution. Out of a sense of love and obligation to her employer, the nurse eventually decides it would be worth taking her to the local voodoo meeting, where the natives gather for mysterious nightly rituals. It’s her love and care for another human being that leads her to break out of her strictly rationalist mindset in treating the illness and look for another solution.

The key scene of the film is the walk these two ladies take on a winding path through the sugar cane fields on their way to the voodoo meeting. The women move through the tall cane on a narrow path in what becomes a journey from the natural to the supernatural. Initially, they are merely surrounded by the natural world, the sugar cane reaching high above their heads and severely limiting their view. Yet as they walk along, they encounter decidedly unnatural sights: a cow’s skull on a stick, a dog hanging from a tree, bones arranged in the dirt, and eventually, a disturbingly bug-eyed guardian to the voodoo meeting.

As the women take this journey, a journey where they eventually discover the true nature of the sick woman, they step into what looks like another world at the voodoo meeting. A man dances with a sword. A woman seems under a trance. A mysterious wise person offers advice through a strangely decorated wall. To find the answer to her problem, the nurse had to step into a world of perceptions beyond the senses, one which allowed for supernatural explanations. Reason alone was simply not enough.

I Walked with a Zombie illustrates beautifully through a horror-story narrative the fallacy of approaching life from a purely rationalist point of view. G. K. Chesterton once wrote on this topic that, “It is idle to talk always of the alternative of reason and faith. Reason is itself a matter of faith. It is an act of faith to assert that our thoughts have any relation to reality at all.” Chesterton’s self-deprecating recognition of humanity’s limited viewpoint coalesces nicely with the overall narrative arc of Zombie.

An Enlightenment viewpoint has certainly resulted in exponential technological, medical, and scientific advances. These gains cannot be ignored. But neither can we ignore the reality of our limited viewpoint, and the need to receive trustworthy knowledge from outside ourselves. I Walked with a Zombie helpfully creates a space from which we might be able to consider such knowledge.

“I haven’t done anything.” So goes the constant refrain of Larry Gropnik, the protagonist of the most recent film from Joel and Ethan Coen—A Serious Man. To the outsider, Larry looks like the perfect candidate for what constitutes a serious man. He works as a physics professor at a small college, drives a non-descript car, dresses conservatively, works late into the night, and has a son preparing for his bar-mitzvah.

While everything seems to be going along nicely for Larry at first, he eventually becomes a human punching bag throughout the film. He’s not a recipient of physical violence, but an onslaught of tragedies and pressures that he can’t seem to make sense of. First his wife wants a divorce. Then her lover wants to befriend Larry. There’s also a dispute with a neighbor, a car accident, a disgruntled student, and a delinquent brother—not to mention a TV antenna constantly in need of adjustment. Larry, like the Old Testament figure of Job, can’t seem to figure out what’s going on in his life. Though unlike Job, Larry has clearly brought some of his problems on himself.

Larry seeks out three rabbis for assistance (much like Job’s three friends), each of the rabbis offering different guidance. The first, and youngest, seems to think Larry suffers from a problem of perspective. If he could just see his problems in a new light, they would stop being problems. The second seems to think Larry should just get over his problems and live his life. After telling a mystifying story that Larry takes to mean he should be helping others, the rabbi unhelpfully offers: “couldn’t hurt.” The third and final rabbi, the oldest and wisest, won’t even see Larry. But when his son comes to the man at his bar-mitzvah, the old rabbi ultimately tells him to “be a good boy.”

It is this simple advice that Larry has needed, but not received throughout the film. Frustrated by the lack of answers, and feeling like he hasn’t deserved all these trials (“I haven’t done anything!”), Larry eventually breaks down and actually does something. However, what he does is less important than what it seems to indicate, and what the film seems to be aiming at on a larger scale: a full-scale critique of contemporary Jewish (or more broadly, religious) life. The religion in this film is one informed by tradition and ritual, but one that remains completely distanced from the day to day lives of its proponents. The religion on display has long since died on the vine, and the film portrays its withering corpse in all its broken glory.

At the end of the Old Testament book of Job, after the titular character has conversed with his friends for chapter upon chapter about what is going on in Job’s life, Job receives a visit from God Himself in a whirlwind. But rather than offer Job answers, God asks only questions, leaving Job speechless and humbled. Job eventually receives a merciful, rather than a judgmental, response from God because Job was a righteous man. He took his position as a believer seriously.

At every turn Larry eschews his religious tradition in favor of inaction or worse—evil action. Job suffered more intensely than Larry, yet bore it well. He found mercy in the whirlwind. Larry suffered less intensely than Job and bore it poorly, missing out on ample opportunities to ease or end much of his suffering, and even compounding his own trials with poor choices. What will Larry find when the whirlwind visits him?

Lorna’s Silence, the 2008 film from the Dardenne brothers, recently played a limited theatrical engagement here in Dallas. It’s always a pleasure to see their work on the big screen, and this film is certainly no exception to the rule. Here, as in the brothers’ four previous full-length fiction films, we find characters situated in a stifling urban milieu, a protagonist placing herself in situations that quickly spin wildly out of her control, and a resolution that resists easy categorization.

Hearkening back to their 1999 film, Rosetta, the brothers again focus their camera on a woman, this one an Albanian immigrant hoping to earn Belgian citizenship through a sham marriage to a drug addict. Lorna has to make several difficult choices along the way, but all of them, at some level, come back to money.

The film opens with the sounds of a bank while the opening credits pass in white over a black background. When the first image finally appears, we see a stack of money changing hands. Knowing the Dardennes, it’s difficult not to think of Robert Bresson’s final film L’argent at this point (their 2007 short film Dans l’Obscurité makes explicit reference to Bresson’s Au hasard Balthazar). The narratives end up quite differently, but the two films share a decidedly pessimistic view of money’s role in modern society.

Finances remain the driving factor in Lorna’s Silence through most of its runtime, as people constantly grapple over money, offer money to others, buy cigarettes, get paid for marriages, and take out loans. Everything in Lorna’s life is a transaction—from prescription drugs to a marriage partner, and even to her own identity as a Belgian citizen. Indeed, Lorna’s drive to leave Albania for Belgium is explicitly never spoken about in the film, but all indications are that she came with a boyfriend that they might make a better life for themselves—better as in more economic choices available to them.

The Dardenne brothers highlight this transactional nature of Lorna’s life. People are constantly exchanging cash, a striking series of scenes when so much of modern commerce takes place without coins and bills. Money becomes for Lorna (and all of the other main characters in the film), a means to achieve her dreams—new freedoms, a new place to live, a new job, and a new identity altogether. However, what becomes clear through the film is how little of this dream she actually attains. She has indeed moved from Albania and has a job, but at the price of both freedom and an identity that’s her own. Lorna becomes an indentured servant, and finds that while her location has changed, her options remain dangerously limited.

Because of her situation, Lorna seems distant, cold, and inhuman as the film begins. She has decided to pursue life as transaction, to essentially sell herself in the hopes of a better existence. However, when she actually has to come through on her end of the bargain, she finds some shred of human feeling and conscience left in her. That flame within her stands in danger of being extinguished early in the film, but as she continues to fight the forces arrayed against her on behalf of another human being, she comes alive. Love is the evidence of life in such a world, and Lorna’s struggle reveals that such love comes only with much sacrifice.

Lorna’s life seems to ask: What does it look like to live a truly human existence in the midst of a life-sapping environment where one’s existence is dictated by transactions? Considering life in purely (or even in primarily) economic terms is no life at all, the film seems to suggest. In highlighting this reality, the Dardennes have placed the proverbial finger on the pulse of modern society. Even contemporary religious communities sometimes define themselves in primarily economic terms, using phrases like “Jesus paid our debt in full” and “count the cost” as descriptors of spiritual realities. What kind of hope can we have when those who speak about hope (religious or otherwise) do so in terms that, were they taken at face value like they are in this film, would sap the life right out of their communities?

In typical Dardenne fashion, the film concludes with more of a question mark rather than a period: How can an actual human being live and love in such an economically driven world that knows nothing of either life or love? Does such a world even allow for humanity? And finally, what does it say about us if we’re living comfortably and carefree in such a dehumanizing world?

Woody Allen’s Match Point was hailed, on its premiere in 2005, as a return to relevance for the New York actor-writer-director. Suffering under a largely underwhelming output through the 90s and the early part of this decade, Allen relocated to London, a move that paid off in the production of this taut, suspenseful drama about a man who finds himself caught between two women—his wife and his mistress.

Allen’s film begins with bold narration laid in over a close up of a tennis net. The yellow ball travels left, right, then back to the left, over and over again as the film’s main character, Chris, speaks about the importance of luck to all of life. When the ball hits the net, the direction it falls will be determined by chance. Or so he’s come to believe. This narration, coming at the beginning of the film, serves to frame the action that follows, providing insight into how Chris views the events that transpire in his life. In fact, he even vocalizes similar views during a dinner scene later in the film, arguing for the ultimate meaninglessness of life because all things happen due to random chance. There is no power to determine one’s direction in life.

A former professional tennis player himself, one wonders if Chris’ belief in chance resulted in his lack of belief in himself. A tennis-playing friend comments to Chris later about how he always seemed to be within a bounce or two of really competing at the highest level. It seems that in the face of years of hard work, Chris could never get the bounces to go his way, so he quit and floated into another way of making a living.

Early in the film, Chris alternates between reading Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and a companion to Dostoevsky that offers readers a shortcut to understanding the novel. As the film goes on, it becomes clear that the narrative unfurls like Crime and Punishment in reverse. The novel portrays Raskolnikov as one who believes himself as unique, superior among human beings, and above the law. These beliefs lead him to commit a crime to prove his theory. However this crime occurs extremely early in the novel, leaving the bulk of the pages to portray Raskolnikov’s struggle with the guilt and fear that come with such heinous deeds, and the redemption that follows.

On the other hand, Match Point portrays Chris as someone who sees himself as an outsider, but who tries to fit into civilized society. The crime that Chris commits, almost a mirror image of the crime in Dostoevsky’s novel, comes at the end of the film, rather than at the beginning. Instead of emphasizing the guilt and fear that result from the crime, Allen lays the emphasis on the guilt and fear that cause the crime. Allen’s film presents us a series of events that lead up to the crime—a list of reasons for it, if you will.

This change of focus presents us a world in which rather than mourning our sins and finding redemption, we ponder the reasons for our sins and lose our connection with humanity. The heart the film, therefore, moves away from introspection, and toward victimization, not a surprising shift in light of contemporary fascination with blaming others. And when the time for fear and guilt over his sins finally arrives in the film, it’s given no more than a few of minutes of screen time.

However, either due to the brilliance of the filmmaker or in spite of him, Match Point cannot be categorized as a simple narrative that illustrates the randomness of the universe. Sure, the main character firmly believes that, even in light of the film’s stunning conclusion. But the film shows us other things as well: we see a man consistently making choices to pursue one woman, then another, even when it forces him to be dishonest or, more selfishly, puts his own living situation at great risk; we see a man who creates a plan to eliminate the conflict between the two women, a plan that will require him to commit a heinous and unthinkable crime; and most significantly, we see a man who, in the final frames of the film, stands apart from the only family he knows.

Allen shoots his final scene in an extended tracking shot, as the family all return from the hospital with a new baby. But the continuity of the shot belies the discontinuity between Chris and the rest of the family. Allen’s camera does not allow this sad reality of Chris’ new life (or is it new death?) to escape. As the family gathers for a champagne toast around the new life sitting before them, an ashen Chris walks toward the window overlooking the Thames, his face bathed in an unforgiving sunlight. The light reveals all—a man who on the outside has no troubles, yet on the inside remains troubled by his deeds; a man who lives in material comfort without, but has no spiritual or emotional comfort within.

If everything really were simply left up to chance, if life really were completely random and without any ultimate meaning, would the look on his face be so predictable? Sure, Allen’s film begins with a narration on the luck of life and includes multiple spoken scenes on the randomness of the universe. But it’s that troubled and guilty face we’re left with, a face that shows us maybe things aren’t as random as they sometimes seem.

I just contributed a piece over at Filmwell. Here’s a sampling:

Whit Stillman’s The Last Days of Disco came out over a decade ago, but its directionless youth who overestimate themselves seem even more prescient today than they did in 1998. That Stillman avoids making his characters hateful or unlikable while eliciting laughter and smiles is a testament to his skill as a writer and director, and to the film’s lasting place as a witty comedy rather than a wordy drama.

From Chaplin’s excellent 1918 short film, The Immigrant.

The first of Sergio Leone’s “Man with No Name” trilogy, A Fistful of Dollars stars Clint Eastwood in one of his most iconic roles, a fast-drawing, occasional-talking man who seems more a force of nature than a human being. He and his gun make an immediate impression on the small town of San Miguel, which has been crippled under the strain of a war between two criminal gangs. The film, a largely faithful remake of Akira Kurosawa’s original samurai picture, Yojimbo, is different in more than just the historical setting. Where Kurosawa’s film takes a detached, though at times, darkly comic view of the violence wrought by the nameless samurai, Leone’s film dwells on the sadistic pleasure the Rojo gang finds in decimating their opponents.

Two scenes, similar in effect, stand out in this regard: an early scene where Ramon Rojo murders an entire French army unit with a single machine gun, and a later scene where Ramon and a few members of his gang light the Baxter house afire and stand outside with guns drawn, shooting down their opponents as they flee the encroaching flames. In each scene, Leone not only shows the helpless group mowed down by bullets, but he highlights the faces of the shooters in close-up as they perpetrate their crimes. The joy and excitement is strikingly evident in their faces as they fire away, believing those moments to be decisive victories in their battle for control of the criminal enterprises in the region.

Leone highlights the shooters in each scene by repeatedly cutting back and forth between their faces and the carnage left in their wake. But what is the cumulative impact of sequences like these, sequences that use brisk cutting to combine looks of pleasure with falling and flailing bodies amid the spray of bullets?

On the face of it, it seems fairly ambiguous, which is exactly the problem. We know the Rojo gang, and Ramon in particular, are a violent and terrible group of people who take advantage of others for their own gain. That fact alone may create the necessary distance between the viewer and the Rojo gang so that we can pass judgment on their actions.

However, the Rojo gang is clearly not alone in their predilection for self-serving behavior. The opposing Baxter family, the military units, and even the (anti)hero all fall into that category as well. On top of that, when Leone chooses a way of shooting (!) these two scenes that uses quick cuts to combine moments of pleasure with moments of violence, the result is a couple of adrenaline pumping scenes, scenes that work more on feeling than on narrative. In that sense, Leone’s film, unlike Kurosawa’s, doesn’t seem to give the viewer any distance from which to judge the Rojo gang. These scenes muddy the waters, giving viewers an opportunity to enter into the violent minds of killers from afar.

This formal combination of intense pleasure and visceral violence has become standard operating procedure in action films these days, but at the time of Leone’s film, the tactic was relatively new. Eastwood’s anti-hero also offers little in the way of a strong presence for goodness, rather functioning as a power greater than the Rojos, come to exact some kind of neutral, karmic justice. The film even underplays the Rojo’s interaction with the village woman, someone they presumably kidnapped for more than her abilities at cooking and cleaning.

So where the film can distance the viewer from the evil of the Rojos, or play up the goodness of Eastwood, it refuses. In fact, it seems to take pains to move all the action downward on a spectrum of good and evil. The world in the film is one of great evil, of power exercised and checked, and where little or no good exists outside of self-interest. This cloudy moral universe means the viewer ends up having little basis within the film on which to make a strong judgment against the Rojos, even or especially within those scenes that highlight their sadistic thirst for vengeance and blood.

So while the film remains an unquestionably strong entertainment more than thirty years after its release, its disturbing use of subjective and sadistic violence means Leone’s film leaves a bitter aftertaste.

Mervyn LeRoy’s stunning 1932 drama, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang stands as one of the landmarks of “social justice” filmmaking. The film follows the tragic story of James Allen (Paul Muni), a recent veteran of World War I. Before the war he worked a clerical job in a factory, but the upheaval in Europe created an upheaval in his aspirations as well. With a newfound desire to work in a career outside the regimented life of the factory or the military, he leaves his mother and brother for the road, hoping to establish himself in construction and ultimately, engineering.

However, Allen’s hopes for a life of spontaneity sputter on the long and arduous road to keeping a job. He struggles to find consistent work, and ultimately gets caught up in a robbery where the gunman forces him at gunpoint to participate. Sentenced to the chain gang for ten years, Allen bristles under the unjust punishment he’s received and comes to realize he’s found himself in a more regimented life than he ever thought possible. What he’d suffered so long to get away from he now found himself subject to for the next ten years of his life.

LeRoy’s film really takes off in the chain gang sequence as his camera expressively lingers on the heavy chains, the dirty surroundings, and the faces of the convicts. Some are murderers. Others thieves. But, the camera suggests, all are human.

However, chained to their beds for the night, chained to the trucks that carry them to the job site, and chained one foot to another, they seem more like zoo animals than people. Within weeks, Allen begins actively planning his escape. He finds his opportunity after only a few months and successfully escapes to Chicago, where he establishes himself as a hard working member of a construction company. After a few years, he’s one of the young stars in the city, giving speeches to the chamber of commerce and attending dinners at classy clubs.

However, having to live under a false name, and in a marriage to a woman who essentially blackmails him, dooms Allen to more of the same. That Allen is forced to live under another set of metaphorical chains in his newfound privileged world suggests something about the way injustice permeates all of modern society. Not even money or prestige buys freedom for the innocent. Eventually, when injustice gets the best of Allen, he turns into what the society has been trying to prevent—a criminal.

LeRoy’s film suggests that the desire to live outside the regimented standards of the world places one up against a life-sapping challenge. Allen wants little more than to contribute to society in his own way rather than the way that’s been provided for him. But I Am a Fugitive . . . has a dark, shockingly cynical perspective on life in modern society. It suggests that the world we’ve created for ourselves of our own free will seeks to stamp out all individuality. This world demands conformity, and those who do not comply will be punished.

In that sense, there’s almost an apocalyptic dread seeping through the film, one that LeRoy expresses beautifully in the film’s final shot. As Allen stands in an alley unshaven and wild-eyed, whispering in a hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice to his former fiancé, he slowly fades into the darkness. Our modern world, so full of wonderful technological marvels, crisp new clothes, and cultured people, also has a dark side, one that preaches conformity and threatens our value as individuals hoping to make unique contributions to our world. It’s funny, but LeRoy’s film seems to be required viewing more now than it was even in the chain gang era of 1932.